


Love and Dilithium

by danahid



Series: The Things You See [4]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Cupid Observes Love on the Enterprise, Established Relationship, F/M, Fate & Destiny, K/S Valentine Challenge 2010, M/M, POV First Person (Outsider)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:02:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danahid/pseuds/danahid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Shut up, Spock, and kiss me already."</p><p>
  <i>It was probably the pollen on Kama II. Or the eccentric orbit of Kama’s moon. It certainly wasn’t because the day happened to coincide with some manufactured Terran holiday. All right, it might have been my idea. Or it was an accident. Or it was Fate. (If I’m still around, so is that old bat with her squeaky wheel. Do you think I have the time to see to every love affair in the universe personally?)</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love and Dilithium

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the 2010 K/S Valentine Challenge and was originally posted on [Livejournal](http://danahid.livejournal.com/16168.html) in February 2010. It was a response to a prompt from rhaegal on the challenge's [request for prompts](http://community.livejournal.%20com/ksvalentine/601.html?thread=9049#t9049): "Okay, so I have a massive weakness for naif!Spock who is completely clueless about human social customs..." I struggled to do justice to the prompt and ended up with something that I was afraid was mostly crack, but a dear, dear friend (J!) assured me it wasn't. I hope you enjoy.

 

It was probably the pollen on Kama II. Or the eccentric orbit of Kama’s moon. It certainly wasn’t because the day happened to coincide with some manufactured Terran holiday. All right, it might have been my idea. Or it was an accident. Or it was Fate. If I’m still around, so is that old bat with her squeaky wheel. Do you think I have the time to see to every love affair in the universe personally?

Fine, I admit that it may have been my idea. It’s not like I spend all my time throwing darts and catching butterflies and flirting with nymphs. I don’t sit around in a loincloth, twiddling my bow and arrows. It gets pretty cold in space, and anyway I’ve never really liked those depictions of me on museum canvases and crumbling stoneware.

All right, I admit that it probably was my idea. But I didn’t expect it to turn out the way it did. I was as surprised as anyone by what happened.

It started with that boy, the one with the unfortunate, unplaceable accent. He wanted some advice on how to approach the object of his affection. He went to the doctor for advice. I would have steered him in other directions, but he didn’t ask me first, as you might have guessed. 

When the boy appeared in sickbay, wringing his hands and mangling his questions, the doctor was flummoxed and flattered in equal measure. He excused himself from his conversation with Commander Spock — they had been discussing more serious matters — and led the boy into his office. When the boy repeated his question, the doctor tried to hide his smile behind a glare, and the boy blushed deeply and literally took a step back. When the doctor rolled his eyes, the boy looked like he was considering running away. I have to admit that I felt sorry for him. First love is always the hardest, especially for a romantic soul like poor Chekov. Of course I had nothing to do with the doctor’s gruff suggestion of flowers and a box of chocolates. 

It may have been then that my idea occurred to me. Or it might have been a coincidence. Or it might have been Fate. She meddles as much as I do, even if she pretends she doesn’t. 

The boy gave replicated truffles and real roses to his true love. His gifts were enthusiastically received, which didn’t surprise me. They reside at the top of every Valentine’s Day list of clichés for a reason. I should know. I wrote the list. 

I couldn’t resist watching Chekov and Sulu as they embraced under a flowering bush in a corner of the botany laboratory. I thought the flowering bush was a nice touch. The boy and his lover fit together well, one of them small and slight, the other quick and handsome with his sharp collapsible sword. I thought the collapsible part must be very useful.

I amused myself watching their hesitant kisses and tender fumbles and awkward meeting of body parts until I realized I wasn’t the only one watching. 

The other watcher stood in the shadows, his sensitive hands clasped behind his back and his head tilted to the side. He had been retrieving plant material from one of his scientists when he heard the unexpectedly amorous sounds from the corner of the lab. As he listened, his brow furrowed, as if Chekov and Sulu were existentially quantified variables in an unsolvable equation. Or he may have found them uncouth. Or maybe he wanted to write them up for disorderly conduct. I couldn’t read his intentions. Vulcans are so difficult that way.

Spock left the lab without interrupting the young lovers. I followed him into the corridor when Chekov and Sulu progressed to the bumping-noses stage. They were adorable together and they clearly had no further need of me, and frankly I was getting heartburn. Young love is all fine and good, but mostly it gives me indigestion. 

I hovered near Spock in the corridor. He was making notes on his datapad. He had set the flowers and plants he had collected for whatever reason against the wall, and was tapping away rapidly. I peered over his shoulder to read what he was writing, but I couldn’t make head or tail of the symbols he was using.

That was probably when my idea became real in my mind. If I could influence a Vulcan, a being of logic and restraint, to become a matchmaker.... I was sure Fate would bow to my superiority then. I rubbed my hands with glee. Fate wouldn’t know what hit her.

I made my plans for total victory while Spock updated whatever he was writing on his datapad. I realized that Chekov and Sulu were an easy match, and I needed a more difficult couple, an unexpected couple, two knowledgeable parties who know what’s up and what fits where, who have strong ideas about who they are and what they want from life. 

I found two perfect candidates for my plan in the _Enterprise’s_ brilliant Scottish engineer and the prodigiously talented Communications Officer. 

Fate didn’t think that I had anything to do with what happened next. But I did. She doesn’t know half as much as she thinks she does. Trust me.

It took only a few whispers in Spock’s ear. He was already in Uhura’s quarters, asking her something about some issue that I didn’t care about, despite Fate’s warnings that I should. Fate is such a busybody. 

Uhura had given Spock several books of poetry, a fact I seized on as a foundation on which I could build my suggestions. 

All I had to do was sit back after that and watch events unfold.

It took very little time for Spock to assure Uhura of Scotty’s sincere intentions. He urged her to accept Scotty’s dinner invitation. He shared his observation that Montgomery Scott’s true love was not the _Enterprise,_ that his true love was actually Nyota Uhura, with her long swinging hair and her soft swinging stride. Although he left out the part about how Scotty thought Uhura was as well endowed as the _Enterprise,_ but in different ways if you appreciate my meaning, I was generally happy with Phase One of “Spock As Matchmaker.” To be honest, he had exceeded my expectations, which shouldn’t have surprised me. Vulcans are always such over-achievers. 

Phase Two of my plan began with Spock’s walking Uhura to the observation deck. He had errands in that direction, he said, and he was happy to listen as she shared her hopes and concerns for her evening. Spock is, as they used to say, a good egg. He was well-raised by his mother, and his comportment is always beyond reproach. For all their lack of imagination, even I have to admit that Vulcans have very nice manners.

When they arrived at their destination, Spock nodded at Scotty then handed him a small wrapped parcel. He took in the details of Scotty’s preparations in a single glance, and nodded once more, approvingly. He touched Uhura’s arm, an unmistakably fraternal gesture, gave her a warm look of encouragement, and left her to Scotty and their planned evening. He locked the door behind himself, using codes that only Scotty or the captain could hack.

I settled back to watch the fruits of my labor. 

You may be thinking that Scotty does not cut the most romantic figure, but then you must understand that most Humans don’t. Give me Deltans any day. Believe me when I tell you that Scotty is a credible romantic. I have experience in these matters, and I know. Scotty has romance running through his veins. And possibly also engine fluid, but that’s another story. Scotty’s love for his bonnie lass may not be the expected story, but it is real and true, his _luve like a red, red rose that’s newly sprung in June, while the sands o’ life shall run, till a’ the seas gang dry._

Scotty’s reverence for Robbie Burns and the great romantic traditions of lore, prodded by some alcohol-soaked but timely advice from Doctor McCoy or maybe Fate (damn her and her meddling), didn’t lead him astray. They led him in fact to a bouquet of replicated wildflowers and a starlit dinner on the observation deck.

I watched Scotty romance his Nyota while music swirled around them — _and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak_ — as they swayed together, fingers tangled, thighs brushing. Scotty stroked her hair back from her face, tracing his thumbs along her cheekbones, whispering an ancient Gaelic poem in her ear, and then slipped a necklace sparkling with dilithium crystal chips around her neck. She wound her arms around him to draw him closer.

I left them then, for the phases of my plan were complete, and my idea had been accomplished to my satisfaction. I intended to find Fate to demand reward for my success, but I found Spock instead. I promise you that I wasn’t looking for him. I practically tripped over him this time.

He had not gone far after he locked the observation deck. He stood in the corridor, tapping out more incomprehensible symbols on his datapad. I peered over his shoulder again, and this time I recognized a check mark and the words ‘dilithium necklace.’ 

In a flash, I remembered the parcel that Spock had given Scotty, and I realized then that my idea might have taken on a life of its own. Or that perhaps Fate was sticking her nose in again. Or that maybe it had been Spock’s idea all along. You never know with Vulcans. Really, Vulcans are tricky and hard to read at the best of times, even for someone like me.

I admit that I wasn’t sure whose idea it was anymore. 

I also admit that I was intrigued. 

I followed Spock and his datapad as he continued to collect materials and supplies from various locations throughout the ship. It was a peculiar undertaking. He marked things off his list with his typical efficiency and invariably ignored the strange looks he received from several members of the crew. I was impressed that Spock’s mere presence could cow them into silence, that his aggressively neutral demeanor could prevent their teasing or embarrassing questions.

Spock eventually led me back to sickbay, where he proceeded without hesitation to the intensive care unit. He divested himself of his numerous supplies once inside the ICU. It was an even more peculiar undertaking that left the ICU festooned — there is no other word for it — with a profusion of colorful balloons and red hearts. It was as un-Vulcan an undertaking as could be imagined.

I was surprised by this turn of events, to say the least, and I am not often surprised. After the first couple thousand years of existence, you pretty much see everything there is to see. Everything after that gets to be pretty repetitious, which is why I took up archery in the first place. Not that I sling my bow and arrows as much as people like to think.

Anyway, I told you in the beginning that it was probably my idea but I didn’t expect it to turn out the way it did. 

I really didn’t. 

I should listen to Fate sometimes, I admit it. I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell her I said that.

So yes. I was surprised, intrigued, and fascinated by the way things had turned out. 

I wanted to see what would happen next, so I watched as Spock sat down beside the still, pale figure on the biobed. They made an incongruous pair, surrounded as they were by an explosion of garish red and white banners, rare plants, traditional bouquets, wild flowers, cards and hearts and poems and balloons. I don’t know where he found the balloons, but I thought they were a nice touch. Considering that he is a member of a species that considers romance distastefully illogical, I was impressed. And I am not often impressed.

I didn’t know what he intended for all of these _things._ Nor did I know what would happen next, much as it frustrates me to admit that. Fate probably knew, damn her. 

I wanted to find out what happened next, so I waited with Spock.

He waited every day. 

It was very boring.

He never once shirked his duty — the _Enterprise_ never lacked a commanding officer — but as soon as he had performed that duty, he returned to his captain’s side. As a Vulcan, he needed little sleep, so he was there most of the time. 

It really was excruciatingly boring. 

But I remained intrigued.

As the days and nights passed, I watched Spock’s shoulders gradually curve inwards. I watched him fold into himself, closing himself like fingers. It was emotion manifest in physical form, and it was fascinating in a way I had never thought that Vulcans could be fascinating. Or maybe it was just this Vulcan, with his Human half that was fascinating. It was hard to tell. Fate would have known, but I knew better than to ask her.

On the seventh day, the captain opened his eyes and murmured Spock’s name. His voice was rough and scratchy, and he hardly sounded like himself.

Spock looked up, and there was naked relief in his eyes. “Captain—” he brushed two fingers against the captain’s— _“Jim.”_

The captain smiled faintly, then winced and closed his eyes. “What time is it?”

Spock straightened, and his expression cleared of any unseemly Human emotion. He was every inch a Vulcan, every inch a Starfleet scientist, every inch the First Officer on the flagship _Enterprise._ “It is—”

“Never mind. ’S’not important. Have I been out long?”

Spock could have offered a precise number of days, hours, minutes, but he didn’t. I was surprised as much by his restraint — usually Vulcans are such know-it-alls — as I was by the way his too-Human eyes softened as he looked down at his captain, softened with some expression that even I couldn’t name, something deeper than all roses.

“Am I in a flower shop?” Jim asked in confusion when he opened his eyes again. He was staring around the room, filled as it was with flowers and hearts and cards and balloons. “Uh, Spock. What the hell?”

“It was a considered approach, sir, when you did not regain consciousness.”

“Since when is decorating my ship to look like Valentine’s Day a ‘considered approach’?” Jim asked, frowning with confusion, which to be honest I couldn't blame him for. He had been in a coma for the past 8.2 days, after all. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it, Spock, but—” he broke off. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Is that a heart-shaped balloon? Really?” He gave Spock a long, searching look. _“Spock._ What’s going on here?”

Spock shifted his stance slightly, which I knew was the Vulcan equivalent of embarrassed fidgeting. “Captain. I observed several crewmembers participating in various Human traditions over the past week and determined that the scent of many of these flowers, for example, is exceptionally strong. I hypothesized that the scent might stimulate your olfactory sense.”

I snickered at Spock's explanation and decided then and there that Vulcans really are the most amusing species in the universe. 

Jim shook his head in bemusement. “My ‘olfactory sense'?”

“Yes, Captain. I have similarly attempted to stimulate your other senses." Spock did not comment on the captain’s stifled laughter. Or maybe he chose not to notice it. It's hard to tell with Vulcans, really.

"As Doctor McCoy was unable to determine the medical cause of your coma," Spock continued, "I chose to pursue other therapies.”

“‘Other therapies’?” Jim repeated, choking slightly.

Spock inclined his head in agreement. I covered my mouth to hide my laughter.

Jim shook his head to clear it. He considered Spock carefully then shook his head again. “C’mere, Spock,” he murmured, patting a spot on the bed beside him. 

Spock arched his eyebrow, then sat. 

Jim grinned. He brushed two fingers against Spock’s, which I thought should have surprised Spock but clearly didn’t. Somehow I had missed this. Fate probably hadn’t, damn her. “Uh, Spock. This … display … isn’t very Vulcan, is it?”

Spock’s eyebrow disappeared into his hairline. “Only Doctor McCoy and his most senior staff were permitted to enter this unit.”

Jim nodded. “That’s good. I think.” He glanced around the room once more. “You know, I thought for a minute there I’d woken up in an alternate universe.”

Spock considered this idea seriously, and I made a mental note to ask Fate about alternate universes.

Then Spock said something completely, universe-shatteringly surprising. _“Nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals / the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing.”_

It was probably hard to tell which of us was more shocked, Jim Kirk or me. I should remind you that I am not easily shocked when it comes to all things romantic. I am somewhat of an expert, you might say.

“Spock. Did you just recite poetry to me?”

“I did.”

“Really?”

“Affirmative, Captain.”

“Okay, so I might be an alternate universe, after all. Also, _‘Captain’?”_

_“Jim.”_

Jim laughed. “Or maybe not.”

There may have been a mischievous tilt to Spock's mouth, but I wasn't sure. Jim had no doubts. He laughed again and twined his fingers around Spock's. After a few moments of companionable silence, Jim asked, “Who gave you the idea for a poem?”

This time I could definitely make out a mischievous glint in Spock's eye. “Nyota has an impressive collection of love poetry. However it was Ensign Chekov’s idea.”

Jim’s laugh was cut off by a coughing fit that had Spock staring at him with worry etched deep in his eyes. Jim understood. He placed his hand on Spock’s arm and told him to stop worrying without words. When Spock eased back beside him, Jim said, “Don’t tell me. Romance was ‘inwented’ in Russia.”

Spock almost smiled, almost fluttered a look at the captain from under his lashes, and I would have said Spock was flirting, except Vulcans don’t flirt. Or do they? 

Spock said, “I will not tell you then. Unless you want me to, Captain?” and I thought I heard a teasing note in his voice. It was all very unexpected and very surprising. I was at a loss, confused by a romantic interaction for the first time in millennia. I decided I needed a holiday.

Jim Kirk was not confused, and he knew exactly what he needed. 

"Shut up, Spock, and kiss me already."

I have to admit that it was a satisfying conclusion to the events. Later, Fate would claim she had seen it in the cards many times over, in this universe and every other. I still think that it might have been the pollen on Kama II. Or maybe it was the dilithium. Perhaps the dilithium was some kind of catalyst for these events. 

Maybe it _was_ Fate. 

Or maybe it was McCoy.

**END**

 


	2. Notes

So much of this story owes its existence to anon_j_anon's ideas, especially the sense of structure and the dilithium necklace. Thanks for your encouragement and your great ideas, J, as always. (Miss you!)

The title is a reference to a short story by Jim Shepherd. 

There are direct and allusive references to Kelly Link's work sprinkled throughout (I clearly remain obsessed by her stories). Specifically, the summary statement and Cupid's fickle voice were strongly drawn from her work. 

The song Scotty and Uhura dance to is Irving Berlin's "Cheek to Cheek," sung by Fred Astaire. I included a direct quote from the song in that section of the fic.

I quoted directly from Robert Burns' arguably most famous poem, "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose."

And there are various images in the story from a poem by e.e.cummings:

_somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond  
any experience,your eyes have their silence:  
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,  
or which i cannot touch because they are too near_

_your slightest look easily will unclose me  
though i have closed myself as fingers,  
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens  
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose_

_or if your wish be to close me, i and  
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,  
as when the heart of this flower imagines  
the snow carefully everywhere descending;_

_nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals  
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture  
compels me with the color of its countries,  
rendering death and forever with each breathing_

_(i do not know what it is about you that closes  
and opens;only something in me understands  
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)  
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands_


End file.
